


demain, dès l'aube

by atomicmuffin



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Banter, Character Death, Doctor Gilbert Blythe, F/M, Future Fic, Gilbert doesn't come back to Avonlea, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Not Beta Read, Not Gilbert or Anne don't freak out, POV Gilbert Blythe, Post Season 1 Canon Divergence, Sebastian I Didn't Sign Up For This Lacroix, Witch Anne Shirley, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicmuffin/pseuds/atomicmuffin
Summary: “Do you know how we call men who fall in love with witches where I come from?”“I don’t know, Bash,” Gilbert dutifully asks. “How, pray tell, do they call men who fall in love with witches where you come from?”“Idiots, Blythe.” Sebastian deadpans. “Idiots.”Or: Gilbert Blythe leaves Avonlea when he’s fifteen and does not return until he’s twenty-two, a medical licence in his pocket, the best brother a man could ask for by his side, and old grief tucked under his rib cage. He certainly didn’t expect to discover the entire island has been taken over by witch fever in his absence thanks to one Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.A Howl’s Moving Castle inspired AU.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Marilla Cuthbert & Matthew Cuthbert & Anne Shirley
Comments: 32
Kudos: 86





	demain, dès l'aube

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Victor Hugo's poem Demain Dès L'aube.   
> Seriously, not beta read, don't sue me.   
> There is a 95% chance I will never finish this, I have a terrible track record with finishing things.   
> Now that's out of the way, with those words of wisdom, new fandom here I come

If there is one thing Gilbert learnt from Mister Phillips' classroom, it's the fact words have more substance than the people carelessly releasing them would ever suspect. Only what have mass can make an impact, Gilbert knows very well, and nothing make more impact than a strategically snarled 'useless brat', a maliciously whispered 'improper indiscretion', a carelessly laughed ' _orphan_ '. Words have shapes, angles, edges, but the particularity of them is that, unlike physical objects, their properties are not inherent to their nature. Instead, their impact depend on the mind of those who receive them.

Lately, there has been no words that weighed as oddly on Gilbert Blythe's mind than the word 'Doctor'. It looks innocent enough, at first glance, like a shiny toy and a badge of honor. Yet it cuts more than any of Gilbert's scalpels could ever hope to.

"I'm so happy to see you again, Gilbert." Doctor Ward grins as he pats Gilbert's shoulder. He wears his own Doctor weight easily, as if the mantle of expectations is light as a feather. Gilbert wishes that were him. "Or should I say, _Doctor Blythe_!"

D-O-C-T-O-R, he imagines his child-self spell cheekily, blissfully unaware of the heaviness of those six letters. He tries his best to smile instead of cringe awkwardly. "So am I, Doctor Ward. Very glad to be back."

It's not a lie, not really. There is a huge part of him that has longed for the green and blue of his island, that has craved to return to the only he could honestly call his home. It so happens that his homesickness is at war with the wanderlust that runs in his family and the grief he genuinely thought he had put behind him.

Was seven years away from the epicenter of painful memories not enough time for him to get over it? Years given to ships, to seas, to adventure and to the reality of the world outside of Prince Edward island's cocoon. Years given to university benches, to books and human bodies, to medecine and growing up miles away from the orchard that has known the imprint of his first steps.

If words are stones of their own right, then memories are sneaky pools akin to quicksands. How easy it is to get lost in their deception, even for the experimented traveller.

Even for the experimented runaway.

"If you need anything, I'm more than willing to help out," Doctor Ward assures him in a painfully paternal tone. "Do no hesitate to reach out, my boy."

"Thank you," Gilbert says, honestly touched. Soon enough, mischievousness replaces bemused gratefulness. "Likewise. No offense to you Doc, but you're not getting any younger-"

"Out with you now!" The older man scolds.

Gilbert laughingly escapes the office, recklessly jumping into Charlottetown's streets. Mud splatters tiny brown dots over his weary boots and trousers. By now, he's too closely acquainted with dirtiness to mind.

Good ol' Charlottetown. It hasn't changed much over his years of self-imposed exile. Same streets, same shops, same stupid boys who think they can do whatever the fuck they want without ever facing retributions.

"C'mon, don't be like that, miss" a typical specimen of the unfortunately common species known as Entitled Pricks slurs. "One drink never hurt nobody, yeah?"

'It certainly hurt your ability to read the mood, if you ever had one', Gilbert thought to himself, while the idiot's companion, most likely an idiot himself, added: "No need to be scared of us, little mouse, we're not going to eat you!"

Little mouse? That's definitely not the expression Gilbert would have used to describe the woman currently staring at the two boys with sharp blue eyes so full of contempt Gilbert would have died of shame was he standing in their shoes. At first glance, the twenty-something young woman seemed perfectly ordinary in her dull grey dress, a basket by her arm, brown hair coiled neatly by her nape, serious-faced and non-nonsensical. Like a younger Mrs Cuthbert, he surprised himself thinking.

Yet, there was something so intense about her, so unsettling, dangerously calm like the dead quietness of treacherous waters before a storm unleashes.

They weren't going eat her alright, but Gilbert wasn't so sure the reverse was true.

"Let's have a bit of fun, little-" The boy had the stupid idea to lay his hand on her arm.

Gilbert wonders what kind of treatment he would be obligated to provide if the mysterious young woman replied to the invasion by cutting off his limb. With an astonishing display of common sense, the man hastily takes back his hand. Good on him.

The woman opens her mouth, and a death promise comes out. "If you two buffoons persist in ruining my perfectly gorgeous day, I solemnly vow not a single soul will ever find-"

"Miss! So sorry for the delay, I humbly beg for your forgiveness!" Gilbert improvises an intervention out of reckless impulse and a distinct lack of survival instincts. He steps in cheerfully, stops to stand by the woman's side while keeping a safe distance, and blinks with theatrical confusion. "Is there a problem, my good sirs?"

"No problem," they say with boyish bravado. "Have a good day."

The two of them disappear in the nearest bar, to Gilbert's relief. One issue solved. On the bad side, he has put himself as the sole target of the young woman's attention. Her sharp glare, grey like pure steel, has the intensity of a stumbling storm. She looks, dares Gilbert say it, astonished by his presence.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She asks, spitting the _you_ like Bash would say _master_. It sounds personal. Are they… acquainted? Surely Gilbert would have remembered a girl like this one, even after seven years.

"Pardon the intrusion, miss." He tilts his cap. "I meant no offense, I assure you."

"Of course, you didn't." She _rolls her eyes at him_. Gilbert had never seen a lady indulge in such a childish gesture. "Gilbert Blythe, rescuer of damsels in distress and dragon slayer extraordinaire, back in town."

So she does know him! How come Gilbert cannot for the life of him remember her face? Those eyes cannot be forgotten. And dragon slayer is quite a particular phrase to use. It's referring to something in particular, a memory hoovering by the periphery of his mind, so close yet escaping his grasp.

"If there is any dragon in need of slaying in the vicinity, I'll be happy to oblige. As for damsels in distress, if miss would do me the favor for indicating me their location, I shall try my best to rescue them at once."

A small smile blooms by her lips. Gilbert drinks on it like water in the desert. "You haven't changed much, have you?" She laughs lightedheardly, and oh, Gilbert knows this sound. "Still wiggling your eyebrows at innocent bystanders and thinking of yourself as a charmer, I see!"

"What's wrong with my eyebrows?" He spurts out, taken aback. "Miss, why must you wound me this way? How rude to attack me without even giving me a name."

She blinks up, sobering up visibly. "Ah. Indeed. Well, I hope you shall eventually recover from the blow, and I wish a happy return, Mister Blythe. Good day to you."

What, he thinks, staring bemusedly at her quickly disappearing back. No, she can't just leave him like this. He rushes behind her into the alley between the butcher's shop and the bar. "Miss, wait!"

"I don't have time to play with you, Gilbert Blythe!" She sighs at him without deigning to stop walking, very dramatically he might add. " Leave me be, you're going to draw attention!"

"Attention from who?" Gilbert pips as he reaches her side. The compulsion to tug at the bold stand of hair who escaped her tight bun surged within him. He ignored it. The last time he did that he got whacked over the head by a slate. Gilbert had learnt his lesson on what is and what is not wise to do around temperamental women.

"People I don't want paying attention to me, obviously."

How mysterious. An adjective Gilbert didn't think applied to anything on Prince Edward Island. "May I-"

"Please refrain from speaking another word."

He obediently bites back his inquiry, and listens up. Underneath the usual cacophony of a small city, strange clicking sounds are getting closer. "What-"

"Trouble," she says as she clicks her tongue. "I suggest you leave now if you do not wish to get entangled in it."

"And here I thought Miss knew me." He grins. "Trouble with a beautiful girl sounds just like my type of afternoon."

"Then run!"

She grabs his sleeve and dashes forward, abandoning all pretense of discretion. And Gilbert, unthinkingly, recklessly, body and mind singing alike, follows along. The human body is such an extraordinary machinery. Lungs shall breath, muscles shall contract, blood shall run, hearts shall beat, and miraculously, legs shall run, all to the tune of easily enthralled brains.

Rushing like a wild child in the middle of Charlottetown, Gilbert feels more alive than he has in a very long time.

Something touches his back. Gilbert turns his head to the side. A willowy human figure is running clumsily on his too thin legs. Some kind of...statue?

"Begone, you foe!" The woman shouts as she abruptly changes direction, dragging Gilbert into a sideway. Their pursuer crashes over a wall trying to follow and scatters in several pieces.

"What the hell is that thing?"

"Claymen! I told you not to attract attention!"

And now it was _his_ fault they were tracked down by magical cronies? What has Mystery Miss done to earn the ire of a magician skilled enough to animate several claymen? On Prince Edward Island no less, hardly a hotspot for wizarding activity.

"There is no escaping him now," Mystery Miss says as they keep on running. "Mister Blythe, what are your opinions on flying?"

Gilbert laughs incredulously. That will teach him to get jump into weird situations without considering the consequences. Bash did always say his hero complex would kill him one day. "You mean that thing _birds_ do?"

She answers with a delightfully out-of-place giggle of her own. "How narrow-minded of you. You can leave if you want. The claymen won't go after you, don't worry."

Two other claymen have appeared, crawling in the street they were about to enter. It takes less than a breathe for Gilbert to decide. "Not a chance!"

"Then, my dear Gilbert, I believe it's time to open your mind and spread your wings."

One moment, Gilbert Blythe was Dr Blythe still, human creature bound to Earth's inescapable gravity, and the next he was something else. Something light and free, who knew nothing of the burden human bodies must carry. He holds on his companion, her arm coiled soothingly around his lower back, his hand clinging to her shoulder.

He's flying. Over his feet lies Charlottetown and its buildings and its people. They jump from one roof to another. _He's flying._

"Isn't the sight absolutely mesmerizing?" the woman that can only be a witch says, in such a tone full of wonder so familiar Gilbert cannot mistake it for anyone else's.

"Anne," he realizes. She doesn't look like Anne at all, with her brownish hair and lack of freckles, and yet, he _knows_. "You're Anne, aren't you? Anne Shirley-Cuthbert."

Anne with an E. Which, in retrospect, should have been obvious. Who else would use words like _mesmerizing_? Who else would have been secretly a witch all this time?

They stop by the balcony of the local inn. Gilbert manages to land with acceptable grace while the witch remains standing over the fence, the very picture of a aggravated fairy. Her face has turned back into Anne's, glorious red hair, adorable freckles and light blue eyes. Though it is not the face of a child anymore. Like Gilbert, Anne has grown up, and she has grown up lovely.

"You didn't know," Anne scowls, looking quite vexed to have been exposed by him. "You had no clue."

"I had no clue," he admits easily. "Perhaps I should have. You did run into a house on fire and escaped untouched."

It just didn't come to his mind a witch would ever live among them. It was _Avonlea_. Witches and magicians were creatures made for big cities or empty spaces, no middle ground. Magic was something that happened to other people, in exotic lands far removed from there.

"That had nothing to do with _magic_ and everything to do with _common sense_."

He barks a laugh. Because running into a house on fire instead of outside is common sense, according miss Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

"I must go," she says as she jumps into the void, just in time to avoid the folk from the inn barging in the balcony.

He rushes to the fence, his heart beating madly under his ribcage, and screams: "Wait! Anne!"

"Welcome home, Gilbert Blythe!"

.  
.

"There is a witch in Avonlea," is the first sentence that greets Gilbert when he steps back inside his father's ho- _his_ house. "There is a _witch_. In _Avonlea_."

"I have heard," Gilbert drily declares.

The wooden floor cracks under his boots. He didn't make the wood croak like this before. His father, heavier than his child self, did. Gilbert takes a deep breath and chase away the memory ghosts pulling on his strings.

This will take some time to get used to.

"And you didn't think it was the kind of detail important to share with your future roommate beforehand, uh?" Bash's eyebrow raises all the way up to his forehead. And Anne had the nerve to comment on _Gilbert_ wiggling his eyebrows. "Oh Bash, don't worry about a thing, he said. Avonlea is the most boring place on Earth, he said. More cows than humans, _and don't mind the very dangerous witch roaming the countryside as she pleases in her moving castle_. You'll love it, he said!"

"First of all, I was not, as a matter of fact, aware that there was a witch in Avonlea. It's a recent development, you can't blame me for that. Secondly, she's not really in Avonlea anymore, as you very justly pointed out."

Today has certainly been… enlightening. Once he asked, the good folk of Charlottetown were only too glad to share the sordid tale of the witch of Green Gables.

Eight months ago, out of nowhere, the farm coiled on itself, grew legs and stepped out, with Anne being the sole responsible for this miracle. No one really knew what happened that night to make Anne 'lose her mind'. Mrs Cuthbert moved to the Lynde's and refused to talk about the matter. Mr Cuthbert hasn't been seen ever since, and is presumed dead.

And Anne? Anne was the new bogeyman of Prince Edward Island, and the main topic of Avonlea's gossiping life. See what happen to people who welcome untrustworthy rats in their home, they whisper. See what happens when women go to college, they mock.

He ached for her, all alone in her magical house. Anne has always been a social creature, starving for human contact, craving basic kindness, longing for crumbs of acceptance. If the situation really is as people claimed, the loneliness must be killing her.

He shakes his head. "Thirdly, witch or not, Anne is pretty harmless. She wouldn't hurt a bug, least a human being. You can stop freaking out."

"Anne?" His friend repeats. "You're on a first name basis with her? Don't tell me it's your Anne. The fiery redhead you have a crush on. The one who whacked your head with her slate. It better not be _this_ Anne."

"I don't have a crush on-"

Bash dramatically put his head between his hands."Fucking save me now from morons with no survival instincts. I don't know what's worst, the fact my brother has a semi-hostile relationship with the local witch or the fact my brother has unresolved romantic entanglements with the local witch."

Gilbert disguises his laugh as a cough. The very idea that Anne saw him as anything but a nuisance, least of all as potential romantic partner, was hilarious. Anne has extremely high standards for romance and she made it clear many times she could barely tolerate his existence in the first place.

"Listen, Blythe." Bash raises up to put his hands on Gilbert's shoulders and stares at him with rare gravity. "If you want us to stay here, you gotta apologize."

"Apologize?" He blinks skeptically. "What for?"

"Doesn't matter. In case she thinks you did something that annoyed her, you have to apologize. Trust me, I know those things. Women such as her are not to be crossed. You gotta grovel. Make offerings. And pray she'll ignore you."

Frankly, Gilbert doesn't want Anne to ignore him. It's been made clear from the start he couldn't handle her indifference graciously.

"I'm serious, Blythe," Bash adds, clamping Gilbert's shoulders tight. "I don't know what they teach on your island but on mine, Don't Anger The Witch is basic common sense. We don't kid around with that."

They don't teach much about magic on Gilbert's island. Mostly superstition, and a deeply rooted feeling of It Can't Happen To Us Anyway. Rumors always run, as rumors tend to do. Whispers about the butcher's daughter growing plants alarmingly fast with a touch, of the Camondy's carpenter making unfailable weather predictions, or of Madam Barry secretly being a retired Court Mage.

But even if those were true… there is a difference between a witch and a _witch_. A mage is a safe bet, powerful but putting their tamed magic at the service of the government. A hedgewitch with very limited abilities is mostly harmless. An actual wild witch however, that's another story.

Anne with her flesh disguise, her flying and her moving castle definitely belongs in the last category, and that's uncharted territory for Avonlea. Uncharted being synonym with dangerous and terrifying for most people.

"Even if I agree, I don't know how to contact her anyway," he points out.

No one does. Rumor has it the castle runs away when people tries to approach it.

"I've got your back, buddy. I had the misfortune to offend a witch of the Bayou once in Louisiana." Bash shudders at the memory. "Lemme tell you it took a lot of begging for her to leave me be."

"You never told me that story." Gilbert grins. "Sounds juicy."

"And I'm never going to tell you. Get your white ass working, Blythe. We got a witch's good favor to earn."

.  
.

Three days later, the witching hour of the night found one Doctor Gilbert Blythe sitting in the family's orchard, next to a candlelit circle so scandalously paien the sight of it would give the good folk of Avonlea a collective cardiac arrest. Within the circle waited the many offering Bash insisted were vital for their survivals: a basket of their best apples, three glass jars filled with honey, a stew born out of Trinidad's dangerously spicy cuisine, a crown of wild flowers Gilbert crafted while waiting, and a few trinkets gathered from all around the world he knew for a fact Anne would love.

If she ever came, that's it. It's more likely Gilbert will fall asleep and wild animal shall have their way with the open buffet. At least this way Bash would be satisfied. This man was more scared of witches than God. Gilbert had rarely seen the usually chill Caribbean man act so dramatically.

"This," he declared to the full moon glaring down judgmentally at him, " is ridiculous."

"For once, I'm inclined to agree with you. Shouldn't a doctor be aware sleeping in the cold in the middle of night is practically an invitation for pneumonia to settle in?"

Gilbert opens his eyes to bright red glowing under the moonlight and a blue so dark it melts within the shadows casted by apple trees. She's actually there. Bash's summoning bullshit actually _worked_. He's never ever going to drop it. Gilbert will suffer through 'I told you so' for the rest of his life now.

"I do, that's why I have a blanket," Gilbert says as he gestures at the quilt he's currently nested under. It's made of a patchwork of pieces of tissue from every town he's ever been to. A maid on the Primrose taught him how to stitch quilts. He's very, very fond of it. "I'm not that much of an idiot."

Bash pointed out the ritual was supposed to be done in the 'simplest outfit', which is a fancy metaphor for closest to naked as possible. Gilbert retorted he wasn't going risk his life to appease a witch's wrath only to die of a cold, thank you very much. Not to mention shall sickness spare him, Anne would put an end to his existence if, by some cosmic mistake, she did show up and found Gilbert waiting for her without clothes.

"Congratulation, Doctor Blythe. I suppose there is hope for you still!" Anne smiles. Through the darkness, it shines delightfully. "What is this? I have never seen it before."

Gilbert stretches his legs on the grass without bothering to stand up. "Some kind of summoning circle from Trinidad. I'm afraid I don't know much more."

"Trinidad! How fascinating," Anne excitedly says, kneeling down to inspect the circle. "I could.. feel its call somehow. I could have ignored it, but I have to say I was quite curious, especially when I realized it came from your house."

"My friend Bash set it up. To be honest, I didn't believe it would work. It's dreadfully unscientific."

"Your friend has a greater scope of imagination than you do then," she snorts. "It's magic, Gilbert, of course it's _unscientific_."

"I'll tell him the terrifying witch who visited us in the night said so," Gilbert smirks at the prospect. "I'm sure he'll be overjoyed."

" _Terrifying_!" Anne repeats with no small amount of indignation. "Really!"

Gilbert shrugs. "That's what I said."

"What does your friend expect, me to barge in the house to eat him alive? I may be a witch, but I have manners." There's something so Marilla Cuthbert-like to her tone of dry annoyance Gilbert can't help but smile. Any second now she's going to blurt out an outraged 'Fiddlestick!'

"More like eat _me_ alive. He thinks we have an...history, and refuse to be convinced otherwise."

"That's ridiculous," Anne scoffs. "By that logic, everyone in our class would be dead meat hanging in my Wicked Lair of Absolute Darkness by now."

Implying that Gilbert was never closer to Anne than, let's say, Charlie Sloane or Jane Andrews. That blow hurt more than expected. He wisely pretends nothing is wrong, and smirks. "Do you actually have a Wicked Lair of Absolute Darkness?"

"Gilbert Blythe, you fool, it's like you _want_ to be eaten alive." Anne waves a finger at him scoldingly. "Don't you know a lady never reveals her secrets? It's much improper of you to ask so boldly, but for the sake of our history, I shall spare your poor life. You may tell your friend my wrath has been sated by those most _exquisite_ gifts."

She's sitting by the candlelight to admire her offerings, excitement buzzing under her skin. Anne has been born for those kind of scenes, Gilbert cannot help but think. Born to laugh freely under the moonlight, covered by the loving shadows of friendly trees, a crown of flower over her unbound hair of red gold, happy and wild and _limitless_.

Perhaps she would be waxing poetry about the sheer romanticism of the moment if she wasn't sharing it with, you know, Gilbert. Who clearly isn't romance material in her eyes.

Too softly, too honestly, he says: "Glad you like it."

"I love it. Thank you." Then, with an hesitation that's so unlike Anne Gilbert found himself arrested by the sight of it. "I'm… happy you're back, Gilbert."

His heart throbs pathetically in his chest. Except it doesn't, cardiac muscles do not, as matter of fact, throb, in any circumstances. It certainly feels that way, though.

How many stories warn foolish men of the danger of witches, how many nursery rhythms, how many sayings? Countless, and Gilbert knows plenty of them. The word _bewitched_ exists for a reason after all.

He doesn't think it's a witch thing though. He's pretty sure it's just an Anne thing.

"Missed me?" He hopes he sounds smooth instead of desperate, on the edge of falling in the abyss.

"Ah! You wish."

He does wish.

"You may ease your friend's worry now." She smiles. Gilbert could easily fool himself to believe it's a tender display of affection. "And go to sleep, for God's sake. You have people to treat tomorrow, Doctor."

D-O-C-T-O-R, he spells at the back of his mind. W-I-T-C-H.

"Eh, don't worry about it, I'm used to function after sleepless nights. College life."

" _Good night_ , Gilbert." After a wave of her hand, all the offerings levitate toward their new mistress.

Lucky them. "Wait, wait! I have so many questions."

"Careful there, you're starting to sound like me," she says, chuckling self-consciously. "Very well. For the sake of our old rivalry, I'll grant you… three answers."

_I'll grant you three wishes, the genie promised_. How very Anne-like to say.

"Okay, good. First of all," he takes a deep breath, before he grins widely. "Did you come flying on your broom? If you did, can I see it? That counts as one question by the way."

Anne looks very unimpressed with him. " _That_ 's your question?"

"Yes, it is." He cheekily winks at her. "I know I have been gone for a while but I assume my 'old rival', as you say, is familiar still with the meaning of interrogative sentences."

"Oh, I'm sorry, this question is so stupid I thought perhaps you had make a mistake and wished to reconsider," Anne snorts haughtily. "To answer it, no, I didn't. Brooms are very unromantic, why would I use such a dull device for anything but their intended purpose? Next."

Which, by Anne logic, makes perfect sense. Gilbert is of the personal opinion that Anne flying by the moon on her broom would quite a fetching sight, but what does he know?

"Fine. My second question is," he pauses for dramatic effect, "... where are the puff sleeves?"

"The. The _what_?" She laughs startledly. Within the privacy of his mind, Gilbert pats himself on the back for this accomplishment.

"The puff sleeves. You were waxing poetry about those all the time before!"

"It was not _all the time_!" Which is a blatant lie. Gilbert was there. It was pretty often. "How do you even _remember_ that?"

She sounds so genuinely astonished he was, in fact, paying attention to what she was saying. What she wasn't saying too. Trust Anne to misjudge how hard she is to forget. "I just do." Gilbert smiles. "So, where are they? You can 'magic up' your dress, right? Why not add them?"

Anne remains silent, pondering on the question. "I didn't think about it. I must have outgrown them, I suppose."

Outgrow is such a strange word. It makes it sound as if childhood was an old dress that could be set aside for the sake of new, more proper gowns.

"What about your last question?" Anne asks.

Right. This one. "May I… keep it for later?"

"No, you may not. There, I answered three questions of yours." The skirt of her puff-sleeveless dress dances in the wind as she turns away from him. "Goodbye, Doctor Blythe."

"Anne! That's cheating! ANNE!"

.

"So?" Breakfast waits by the table when Gilbert stumbles in the kitchen come morning, eyes puffy with exhaustion and one cheek wrinkled still by the shape of his improvised pillow.

"So, as you can see, I'm still alive." Gilbert points out. "The witch said I was on probation. It's a work in progress."

She said nothing of the sort, and Gilbert is a filthy, filthy liar.

Bash pats his back comfortingly. "You tried, brother. You tried."

.  
.

Canada, Edward Prince Island,

Avonlea, Blythe-Lacroix Farm,

_Doctor Ward,_

_Since you encouraged me to, allow me to write to you from a colleague to another to request your opinion, for I am in dire needs of your superior medical expertise and wise advice. I'm afraid to report to you Avonlea is currently at the center of a most peculiar clinical phenomenon my books cannot explain: a phantom sprain epidemic._

_No less than four different patients called on me for that specific complain today, one after the other. Astonishingly, I could find no sign of clinical evidence of injury, though my patients spoke of a great pain indeed, that required all my attention. First it was Prs Pye, then Mrs Walters, followed Miss Barry, and so on. In addition, six other patients came to me for various phantom wounds, including but not limited to: knee pain, toe pain, bellyache and a spontaneous tingling in the right ear lobe. Not to mention Mrs Lynde, who visits every two days to warn me off 'poorly thought frequentations', whatever that means._

_Otherwise, my friend Sebastian and I have settled comfortably, thank you for asking. It's pleasant to be back home, all in all, though very strange. I'm sending a basket of our best apples, as a bribe for your advice and incentive for a quick answer. In the meantime, I'm eagerly waiting for your life-saving wisdom, or for a fast solution to put an end to my misery, whichever is most convenient to you._

_With my most sincere respect,_

_Gilbert Blythe._

_PS: Yes, I am aware this sprain epidemic is mostly due to the fact I'm something akin to an exotic beast exposed at the Fair for our little boring town. Please tell me you have any idea how to make it STOP._

_._

Burns have never been the kind of injuries Gilbert felt comfortable with, and medical school didn't manage to cure him out of his visceral dislike of them. He hates the sight of them, the smell of them, the pain they inflict, the consequences they can have. Give him a infected wound, a broken bone or a breech baby over blisters any day.

Unfortunately, beggars can't be choosers, and neither can country doctors.

"Will you show me your arm, Johnny?" he gently requests. "I have magical poultice to help you feel better? Sounds neat, right?"

The kid sniffs, and raises his head hopefully. "Magical?"

" _Very_ magical. Fairies living in the wood made it. If you don't trust me, and I won't blame you on that, you can trust the fairies. They know what they're doing."

Behind them, Johnny White's house is burning still while men and women fight against its sheer power of destruction. The smoke is suffocating, even from outside. And Gilbert keeps on imagining Anne coming out of the house with her face blackened with ashes, screaming that 'fires need oxygens, you fools!'

The kid looks up. "It's raining."

A drop falls on Gilbert's face. First it's a few tears, then a goddamn deluge rains down on them, despite the fact not a single cloud stood upon them a minute before. People scream in joy as the fire has no other choice but to die down. And the moment the last ember drowned, the rain stopped.

A miracle.

"Not a miracle!" Ruby Gillis, though it's Ruby Spurgeon now, screeches. "It was Anne! I saw her! She made it rain!"

Gilbert stands up, his clothes clinging to his skin, a torrent dripping out of his hair because of course Anne Shirley-Cuthbert never does anything by half.

"Ah, that filthy witchling wouldn't help us!" Billy Andrews viciously retorts. "I wouldn't be surprised if she set the White's house on fire herself, the lunatic!"

"You take that back!"

Ruby Gillis, standing it up for Anne Shirley-Cuthbert in front of everyone, standing up to Billy Andrews. Who would have thought? Gilbert wouldn't believe it if he wasn't seeing it happening right in front of his very own eyes.

"She's insane! Remember what she did to the redskins' school, uh? And to her own goddamn house!"

"That's quite enough!" William Barry steps in before Ruby can throw herself at Billy with the apparent intention to gorge his eyes out, _what the hell_. "Regardless of who's responsible for what, I think we all need to go to sleep."

"Agreed."

Everyone stop talking when Marilla Cuthbert speaks up, as if a statue had open its stone mouth to share a word of wisdom and it's vital to respectfully shut up this instant. She stands at the edge of the crowd, black hair, sober expression, the stiff movements of those so deep in mourning they can hardly feel sunlight anymore.

"We should all get some rest," she adds. No one dares to tell her off, so every soul gathered scatter back to their respective home, aside from Gilbert, who stays to attend to the few wounded.

He returns home by dawn, only to find Bash smoking by the porch, a cup of coffee on the side. "A goddamn deluge." He shakes his head incredulously. "You better get on that witch's good side soon, Gilbert Blythe."

"I'm working on it, Bash. _I'm working on it_."

.  
.

The night of the next full moon, dark, fat, angry clouds roll over the sky and cry tiny tears all over Gilbert's house. Therefore, he has no other choice but to relocate his witchnip circle to the barn, which is very obviously a terrible idea. Hopefully, if he accidentally set fire to his own barn, Anne might take pity on him and drown everything on her way.

He sits by the candles and the offerings, and he _imagines_. He thinks of the scent of ink on paper and the taste of rejected sweet apples. He thinks of the sound a slate make when it crashes against a thick skull of a foolish boy, and of sobs born of a shame so deep that mouths couldn't hold them back. He thinks of a mind so large Avonlea had no other chance to ever contain it, and of a laughter so light it would fly above the tallest tree, high enough to reach the sky and spread all over the world.

Gibert opens his eyes to a fairy queen casually sitting in his barn. "Hello, Anne." He grins, lips curling around the E. "How does this fine evening find you?"

"Perplexed." Anne answers to his excitement with a glare. "I thought we were done meeting like this, Mister Blythe. Is your friend anxious still about the bad _bad_ witch in the woods?"

Her dress, green like the deepest shade of the forest, have puff sleeves.

"Well, you didn't have to come," Gilbert says, avoiding the question. "This circle is… an invitation, not an obligation, right? Am I to understand you do wish to be here then?"

Her anger, like every pebble of emotion from her, is a sight to behold. "If I hadn't come, you would have fall asleep and set your own barn on fire!"

Gilbert can't help but laugh, full of drunk-like elation. Why would she care if the boy she never liked in the first place burnt himself to a crisp trying to reach the sky? "My hero."

"Ugh." She crosses her arm around her chest. "What do you want from me, Doctor Blythe?"

That's something he has been wondering for a very long time as well. What do you want from Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, Gilbert Blythe?

"I'd would like to give my gratitude for your assistance," he says softly. "What's wrong about that?"

"I didn't stop _your_ house from burning-"

" _Yet_."

"So you don't owe me anything," she ignores his amused interruption without blinking. "Your poorly thought excuse is therefore null and void."

He tilts his head to the side. "I meant, I'd would like to give my gratitude for your assistance, _on the behalf of everyone else in this town_. Your objection is therefore null and void."

"You-" Anne spurts out, red-faced.

Gilbert leans forward. Tentatively, he captures her hand between his. She stares down at their intertwined fingers without saying a word, eyes large like the moon. "Thank you, Anne. Honestly."

He has to say it. No one else will. Though if he's being honest with himself, gratitude is not the reason he keeps pouring his heart in a circle and hope for the best.

Her fingers escape his grasp. "You don't have to thank me, Gilbert," she raspily declares.

"Yes I do," he cheerfully says. He likes the sound of _Gilbert_ much more than he likes _Doctor Blyth_.

"No you _don't_!"

"Can we please not argue for once?"

Anne goes still. Softly, she says: "Can you please stop contradicting me?"

If he closed his eyes, Gilbert could almost see himself in this little restaurant, fifteen winters only, as sensitive as an open wound and trying so hard to pretend he was not.

"Well, unfortunately, past experiences seem to indicate that no, I cannot."

"I have noticed. I liked you better when you were oceans away," she mutters.

She probably did. People are usually more likeable when they are away. It's easier to ignore their fault that way, and to long for their idealized self. Though Gilbert doubted Anne bothered to come up with an imaginary version of him, the way he kept thinking 'Anne would like this' or 'if only Anne could see this,' the way he often pictured her by his side, making the world brighter just by being in it.

"Liar. You missed me. You said so yourself. Who else could give you a run for your money without me to egg you on in class?"

"I survived just fine, didn't I?"

That she did. Even went to college and brought back a teaching licence. She was supposed to become Avonlea's teacher, before everything went downhill. Or so the rumors say.

"Yes, you did. Speaking of," he brightens," I'm surprised you haven't hounded me with questions on how exactly _I_ survived."

Her eyes glint strangely. "I was not aware I was meant so concerned on the matter."

"C'mon Anne." He gives her the wink Bash calls 'Lady's Killer'. "You don't want to know about America? The Caribbean?"

She bites her bottom lip in her vain effort to contain her excitement. It's a low blow to appeal to her unwavering curiosity to snatch her attention. Gilbert is so not above low blows.

"I can't deny that I am. Interested," she says with the carefulness her thirteen years old could have never managed. "However. Gilbert, you're not stupid-"

"Why, thank you, I thought you'd never notice."

"-you know you can't keep talking to me. Least of all, summon me in the middle of the night. Repeatedly. In _winter."_

"It's autumn-"

"It's winter in a week!"

"And I have a blanket." He pats his lap for emphasis.

"Curse your blanket!"

"Please don't, oh merciful Lady of Magic." He stands up abruptly and pretends to beg. "I'm quite attached to it. Who would be my most faithful companion while I wait desperately all night, in _winter_ , if not for it _?_ "

She gets up on her feet and start pacing, her frame moved by restless agitation. Gilbert can't stop himself from staring at the puff sleeves furiously fluttering with her movements. "You wouldn't need a faithful companion to accompany you on your stupid endeavors if you refrain from doing aforementioned stupid endeavors."

"But Anne," he blinks up innocently. "How would I share my everlasting gratitude otherwise?"

"You shouldn't share your unnecessary gratitude" She stops walking at once to yell directly at him. "You shouldn't be talking to me at all!"

And that's the core of the issue. The open secret the good folk of Avonlea pretends to ignore. The rotten wound under the bandage.

The witch in the woods.

"Oh Lord," he sighs as he leans against a haystack. "Really, Anne, the 'you can't talk to me' again? I hoped we were over this already. Is Ruby going to fall upon us like a Valkyrie to punish us for conniving behind her back?"

"Don't play dumb, you know perfectly what I mean." She glares at him with those sharp blue eyes of hers.

He does. How could he not, when everyone and their brother have pestered Gilbert about how much he should _not_ approach Anne.

"Anne. I don't care what everyone thinks."

She laughs, not joyfully like she used to, _bitterly._ "Will you keep not caring what everyone thinks when people refuse to talk to you because you're consorting with a wild witch?"

"That won't happen."

He realized as he says it that it could happen though. People have turn on their neighbours for less than that. Especially when they are afraid.

"You don't know that." She shakes her head, looking exhausted. "Just make yourself a favor and leave me be, Gilbert."

Anne doesn't wait for an answer and twirls out, in a typical dramatic Anne fashion. Gilbert finds himself standing on his own, the fire spirit he somehow managed to invite in his barn gone.

"I won't," he promises to the emptiness. "I won't leave you alone."

I won't leave you to mourn on your own, he promises to himself.

.  
.

_Dear Sebastian,_

_I must start this letter by humbling asking you to please forgive the too-familiar use of your first name. I'm afraid I do not know your last name due to yet another lack of judgement from our common acquaintance. I hope you will also be indulgent of my boldness writing to you despite not having been properly introduced. This is, after all, a case of emergency._

_Reading this I realized my words might sound alarming to you. Do not be, I assure you I intend no harm, to you or to anyone, and yes, that's the way I usually speak: with unnecessary drama and flourish. I have been told people eventually get used to it._

_Anyway, back to the topic. There seems to be a misunderstanding between us that I wish to clear out. I have no resentment nor conflict of any kind with Doctor Blythe or anyone associated with him, and I promise there is NO NEED for more offerings. I must thank you for the ones I did got, though unnecessary, I appreciate them deeply._

_My point is, please tell Gilbert to drop it with the summoning circles. He's going to get himself pneumonia at this rhythm, for no good reason._

_Thanking you in advance, with all my best wishes,_

_Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,_

_Your Local And Mostly Harmless Witch._

.

"For fuck's sake, Anne," Gilbert coughs over the ridiculous letter Sebastian has slammed on the table came morning. "Only you."

Sebastian didn't laugh. Instead he frowned, looking at Gilbert strangely, as if he had finally understand something life-changing about his brother. "Do you know how we call men who fall in love with witches where I come from?"

That very much sounds like the beginning of a conversation Gilbert most definitely does not want to have. Low blow, Shirley-Cuthbert. Low. Blow.

"I don't know, Bash," Gilbert dutifully asks. "How, pray tell, do they call men who fall in love with witches where you come from?"

"Idiots, Blythe." Sebastian deadpans. " _Idiots._ "

Sounds about right. 


End file.
